Brassiere Basics

I'm a big girl. You know - curvy. Feminine. Buxom. I guess what I'm trying to delicately hint at is that I've got boobs. Which, of course, leads to the inevitable need for a bra. I say need, here, in the most fundamental sense. I don't wear one to ensure a 'smoother profile' or 'better posture'  - two of the many lies promulgated by bra manufacturers. No. My motivation for struggling into one each and every day is more a sense of self-preservation. You see, after breastfeeding three babies, they've become a tripping hazard. I can't say for sure, but my guess is that I'd be violating an OSHA mandate if I didn't keep 'the girls' safely contained - for my own safety, and the safety of others. A bra for a well-endowed woman is really more about structural support than sex appeal, which is all the more reason why you'd think someone like me would invest in top-of-the-line gear. Alas, that is sadly not the case.

Why am I exposing myself (figuratively and a bit literally) and writing about such things? It's all my bestie's fault. She is one of those people who is funny, cute, and always looks pulled-together and neat. During a break in a conference we attended together, she commented about how much she loved my dress, and asked me to take off my jacket so she could see the back. Thrilled to have impressed my fashionista friend, I started to slip my arm out of the sleeve, and then froze. I hemmed. I hawed. I made excuses, and blushed furiously. Finally, I had no choice but to admit the truth - I couldn't take my jacket off because the halter neckline of the dress would expose the back of my bra. Usually, this would not be a problem between buddies. However, my bra, on that particular day, looked like something out of a redneck fix-it shop. You can see, then, why I was hesitant to show it off.

The implement itself wasn't all that unusual. It was your typical Walmart bra - white, with a three hook closure in the back, and made for nursing. The problem was, I hadn't nursed a baby in two years. Since the time it was purchased, I'd also gained some girth, and had added a handy extender to give me some extra breathing room. The extender was black. And six hooks wide. And had been repaired in hot-pink thread. I might as well have used duct tape and baling twine when it came to aesthetics. The final result couldn't have been much worse.

My friend, being the intuitive gal that she is, began to throw questions my way about the offending item of clothing. In short order she had guessed that I was ashamed to show it because it was a nursing bra, despite the fact that I was no longer a nursing mother. Thankfully, she accepted that as the reason why I was hesitant to flash some skin and show off the back of my dress, so I was spared the embarrassment of having to actually reveal my neon stitches and mismatched extender.  I did, however, have to sit through a mild chiding about the importance of finding the right bra. Arguing was out of the question - partly because I knew I deserved the lecture, and partly because I was afraid she'd want to point something out and discover just how shockingly bad my undergarment really was.

At any rate, she was right. Since then, I've tried to be more mindful of my choice in brassieres. I no longer own a single nursing bra, and am down to just one extender, which happens to be the same color and width as the bra it is affixed to. Moreover, just last week I actually discarded a bra after the underwire broke, rather than simply pulling both wires out and continuing to wear it as-is, which is (I'm ashamed to say) something I've done in the past (Hey, at least it's economical...)

All in all, I'm glad to report that I've taken some major steps in the right direction, and am well on my way toward having an arsenal of support garments that's both attractive and strong enough to tote the load. And, not a moment too soon. After all, I'm raising three daughters who (if genetics are any indicator) are likely to be similarly well-endowed. I'm determined to not let them down when it comes to brassiere basics. I'm sure the answers are out there - some mysterious combination of fact, science, lore, and spandex - hidden deep within the pages of the Victoria's Secret catalogs, blueprints in the basement of the Vatican, and the annual OSHA safety guidelines. If all else fails, I can always get out the extenders and pink thread. They may not be pretty, but at least they work.

On Getting Older

I'm getting older. At least I'm in good company, though. Turns out, you're getting older too. We all are. Despite scientific, medical, pharmaceutical, cosmetic, and even surgical advances,  you cannot stop the onslaught of time. It is relentless. I have recently come to discover that it is hairy, as well. Allow me to explain.

Picture it - Mother's Day. After church my adoring family had announced that they were going to take me out to the restaurant of my choice to celebrate my role as matriarch of our little clan, since that's what tradition (and Hallmark) require on this made-up May holiday. A few minutes later we were perched on greasy seats at a wobbly table in a local fast food joint.  (Yes, that's what I chose. Partly because I love their burgers so very, very much, and partly because the faster we ate our food, the sooner I would be able to go home for a  much-anticipated Mother's Day nap. Don't judge me.) 

Anyway... the sun was streaming through the window. My children were grinning in my direction (they liked that I chose the fast food place too.) My husband was staring intently at me. I was just thinking how lucky I was to have a healthy, happy family, and a man who still found me beautiful after so many years of marriage, when he leaned forward, brushed my cheek softly, wrinkled his brow, and said, "Is that a hair?" I paused, french fry in midair.

"Is what a hair?"

"That." He pointed. "That thing. On your mole."

Oy. Now those are words you don't ever, ever want to come out of anyone's mouth about you. Especially not your husband's. Especially not on Mother's Day. Especially not in public. My greasy hand instinctively went to my face. (Which, in hindsight, wasn't such a smart thing. Who wants a pimple on top of a hairy mole, after all?)

"I think it is. I think there are two, actually." He said, with great interest.

"Nu - uh!" I gasped in horror, and excused myself to rush to the bathroom. 

In the ladies' room, I locked the door and peered into the mirror. He was right. Though the hairs were blonde (thank goodness!), they were there, nonetheless - long, mocking, and a reminder of the fact that I was getting older. I think all women eventually come to the place of thinking they've either turned into hideous old crones, or (even worse) their own mothers. That's how I felt. I plucked the hairs, washed my hands (because touching mole hairs is gross, you know), and returned to the table. My husband grinned, and inspected my face closely.

"You got 'em, eh? Nice job!" He offered an upheld hand for a high-five.

I figured that since I had officially turned into a witch, I would be able to vaporize him on the spot with one glare from my wizened, cloudy eye. After all, though he hadn't technically caused my facial follicles to explode, he had been the one who noticed them doing so. Same difference, right? When I realized that my pouty stare hadn't worked, I couldn't help but grin back at him, though, and return the high-five - an action typically reserved for victors in sporting events or for moments of great triumph or importance. In retrospect, I realized that it was the perfect gesture.

For one thing, life is a great race. The most we can do is endeavor to run our race well, to the very end, until we cross the finish line and share the fullness of the victory of Christ. The mole hairs and other unpleasantries we get along the way are simply indicators of the mile markers passing by. High five - you're still running your race! And, the fact that I have someone to share my life with - even the unpleasant bits - who loves me through thick and thin is a great triumph in and of itself. High five - there are people in your life who will run your race with you, from the highest highs, to the lowest lows, even if you turn into a troll.  That's pretty sweet stuff indeed.

Since then, I've discovered a few more signs of age, and I'm sure that trend will continue. But, it's all good. Every hair, sag, and wrinkle I come across is another reminder of the fact that I'm still here, and still going strong. Life may not always be pretty, but it certainly is something to celebrate.  I'm getting older. But, I'm in good company. You're getting older too. Can I get a high five for that?

Lee Ann

It's my best friend's birthday, and I want to shout it from the rooftops! (Actually, six months and three days ago, when I first started this blog post, was my best friend's birthday. But one of the many reasons I love her so much is that she tolerates my procrastination.) I have a really good plan for a really cool birthday gift that I'm really going to make for her eventually. Really. Honest. But, since I am a procrastinator and always run late (see previous sentence), I at least wanted to take this chance to tell all of you (my devoted, faithful readers) about my best friend, Lee Annie.

Ok - first off, her name is just Lee Ann, not Lee Annie. But, she and I have been like two peas in a pod since I was born (and she was six weeks old), and we used to giggle in utter abandon and delight about how well our names fit together -  just like us. We would skip through the park, hand-in-hand, in our matching, hooded capes when we were little and be content in the knowledge that we had the world by the tail. To be honest, I still feel that way when we get to hang out (though the capes no longer fit, and matching clothing is a bit strange for honest-to-goodness grownup ladies like ourselves).

It helped, of course, that we have a shared red-neck upbringing during our tender, formative years. Though, truth be told, if push ever came to shove, she'd out redneck me in a competition any day of the week.After all, I've never had a pet raccoon, squirrel or alligator. Let alone several of each. She has. True story. Anyway - even if that were to happen (is there such a thing as a redneck competition?),  I'm pretty certain that our attachment would survive. I think it can make it through whatever life might throw our way. In fact, it kind of already has. We've done everything from living a few blocks apart, to having several states separating us. Even more amazing, we've even survived living together! (Briefly, and when we were very young. There were no squabbles over the division of rent or utilities, but the nightly arguments about whose turn it was to wash and whose turn it was to dry was every bit as rough as any adult disagreement could ever be. I'm sure of it.)

Despite such seemingly-insurmountable challenges, our friendship is holding strong. I'm sure there are a lot of reasons for that. First off, our mothers are still friends. Our children are as well, which makes us the gooey center of a lovely, multi-generational friend sandwich. We also, finally, have the joy of being buddies within fairly close geographic proximity (not as close as we were before I had the nerve to move to the other side of the state, mind you...) But, most of all, we are still friends because we both know waaaay too much about the other to leave the friendship without serious fallout. I'm pretty sure either of us could ruin a potential presidential campaign for the other, for example, just from the information we know about the other's teenage years. The thing is, though- we wouldn't.

I know I can trust Lee Ann to keep my secrets - from what I looked like the one and only time I wore a two-piece swimming suit, to just how ratty I let my undergarments get before buying new ones - to the very end. She still chuckles at my lame jokes, and guffaws at the really good ones. Hearing her ring tone on my cell phone is enough to cheer me up. When I pulled the first nasty, long hair from a mole on my face, I texted a picture of it to her (along with a friendly reminder that I might be turning into an old crone, but she is 6 weeks ahead of me in the process, since she's the older one.) And, I'm pretty sure the only reason we haven't each jumped the parenting ship and headed for the border is because we remind one another - on a daily basis - that it's normal for children to scream and whine, that it doesn't mean we're bad parents if our children scream and whine, and that if we don't stick around for the long haul we won't be able to re-tell the stories of when our children screamed and whined when they are listening to their own children scream and whine. And that, my friends, is what real friendship looks like.

Let the Commencement Commence

Seems like they'll let just anyone do a commencement speech these days! I had the honor of giving the key note address to the 2012 graduates of the Mid-Prairie Home School Assistance Program. I couldn't be more honored. While there were lots of things that I could have said, here's what the final draft looked like. Seems like prudent advice to all of us:

Graduates, teachers, parents, students, and distinguished guests – Welcome. We are here today to celebrate a monumental achieve…

Ok – I’m just kidding. I’ve always wanted to start a speech in some fancy, high-falutin way. But, I’ve got it out of my system now, so we can move on.  I think most of you know me, and know that’s not really the kind of person I am. For those of you who don’t know, my name is Andrea Farrier. I was a supervising teacher in the MPHSAP for 10 years, and loved every minute of it. Three weeks ago, however, our family embarked on a new adventure, and moved to the town of Atlantic, in western-central Iowa.

I really, really miss you guys, but am totally enjoying ‘only’ being a stay-at-home, full-time home schooling mom. To be honest, I’ve never worked harder in my life, and I’m exhausted. I salute you all!  I’m open to the idea of skipping the rest of the speech so all of you moms out there can get a well-deserved catnap, but somehow I don’t think that’s what Jan had in mind when she asked me to speak to you all today.

In fact, I’m not 100% sure what it is that I’m supposed to be talking about, so I’m just gonna wing it, alright? I think the general theme is transitions, which I’ve had a few of in the past couple months, and our new graduates will have a few of in the months to come. Maybe some of the things I’ve observed and lessons I’ve learned will be helpful to you as well. So – here goes:

1.)    Don’t Take Junk. For me, this was a somewhat literal lesson. When trying to fit a whole household of stuff for 5 people into one moving truck, you’ve got to be selective. Let me give you an example. I, like many people my age, sort of had two wardrobes. You know what I’m talkin’ about ladies? I had my regular clothes, that I wore everyday. And, I had my skinny clothes. You know – the ones I used to fit into, that I really, really, really wanted to fit into again someday, and that made me feel miserable about myself every time I looked at them. Some of them – I kid you not – I’d had since I got married. There was one skirt in particular that I wore on my honeymoon that I adored, and it had been mocking me from my closet for 12 ½ years.

When I was packing up my clothes, I really debated whether or not to throw it in with the rest, even though I know full well I will never wear that skirt again. What I realized – and it was very, very freeing for me – was that that just because you’ve spent a lot of time with something, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s something you need or something that’s good for you. I had loved that skirt when it served a positive purpose in my life, and I would always have those memories. I didn’t need to drag it halfway across the state, though, so it could continue reminding me of what I’m not. Get what I’m saying, here? Familiar isn’t always helpful. 

Graduates – I encourage you to stop and think in the days ahead - are there things you’re keeping, habits you’ve formed, ways you think or talk about yourself or others that aren’t going to be helpful in your next steps? This – right here, right now - is an opportunity to choose what you put into your box to carry into your future. Don’t drag something along just because you’ve had it a while or it feels familiar. Instead, be selective, and make sure you’re not packing junk

2.)    Don’t Forget People. Newsflash – I wouldn’t be where I am today without all of you, and so many others who have invested in my life. And, you wouldn’t be where you are today without all the people who have cared, loved, worked, helped, prayed, hugged, taught, etc…  you, either. Don’t forget about them. Don’t forget about the person who taught you how to tie your shoes. Don’t forget about your buddy in fourth grade. Don’t forget about the person who cleans the toilets in your church. Don’t forget about your family. Don’t forget about your friends.

Some of them will not continue to be in your life in your next steps. That’s ok. You need to make peace with that. Learning to let go of relationships – good and bad ones – gracefully is a necessary life skill. One of the people I thought I’d be best friends with forever is still my best friend. The other one is not. We haven’t spoken in years. And, that’s alright. Our friendship served its purpose at the right time, and we drifted apart at the right time.

Some of the people in your life, however, are destined to be a part of your next steps. Call them. Email them. Send smoke signals if you have to. These are the people who were put into your lives to be a support. They’ve already earned your trust, and proven you can count on them. That’s worth more than any pay check, or college class, or cute new boy or girl could ever be. Don’t neglect those relationships. When hospice workers ask dying patients to reflect on their regrets in life, one that comes up almost universally is not tending important relationships like they wish they would have. Don’t make that mistake.

3.)    Be Flexible. True story – when Mark (my husband) and I first started feeling like we were supposed to move in a different direction in life, we kept thinking that direction was North Carolina. We felt called there. He interviewed for jobs there. We just knew we were going to end up living on the Atlantic coast. Instead, God moved us to Atlantic, Iowa. Now, as much as I have come to love my new little town, it is not the ocean. There are no endless beaches. There are no coastal breezes. There is no marine life. And, that’s ok.

Don’t get me wrong – at first it wasn’t really ok. Not in my heart of hearts. Mark interviewed for the job in winter, and I was seeing more white snowbanks in my future than white, sandy beaches. I grumbled a bit, more than I should have, but then I did one of the most important things that anyone can do – I got over it. I moved on. I got flexible and embraced what was happening, not what I thought would happen.

Graduates – you better start brushing up on your yoga, because you’re going to need to be flexible too. A lot. Like, all the time. You’ll need to flexible in the little things – like where you live, what your job or class schedule will be, how much money you make. And, you’ll have to flexible in the big things, as well. Statistics show that most of you, ten years from now, will not be doing the job you think you’ll be doing. Neither will the person next to you. Your life – most likely – is not going to end up how you think it is going to right now. But – if you’re flexible along the way – it’ll end up being exactly where you need to be, which is even better.

4.)     It’s Good to Be Scared Did that last one scare you a bit? You know, someone standing up here telling you that your life’s not gonna turn out like you want it to? Good! It’s good to be scared. If you’re not feeling at least a bit apprehensive, that means you’re not trying something new. I tell my kids all the time that learning only takes place beyond what you already know. It sounds simple, but is rather profound when you think about it.

If you only eat the foods you already know you like, hang out with the people you already know everything about, go to the places you’ve already gone a million times before, watch the movies you’ve already watched before, and do the things you already know how to do, there is no room for growth and change. The most productive times in your life are probably going to be the scariest. My husband was, with all respect in the world, scared to death when he started his new job, and I couldn’t be more proud of him for taking that step. It has turned out to be a wonderful thing for him, his employees, the City of Atlantic, our family, and so many more. But, it didn’t come easily.  Most great things don’t.

I encourage you to live enough on the edge of life to know apprehension, and to be a bit scared sometimes. Don’t get me wrong (please, please, please don’t get me wrong!). I am not telling you to drive at 95 miles per hour, make unwise financial decisions, or even to watch scary horror movies. That’s not what I’m saying. Don’t misquote me here. But, going into the unknown is the only way you’re going to broaden your horizons. Don’t be afraid of being afraid once in a while in life.

5.)    Enjoy the Ride Seriously. On the good days, take time to look around and recognize that it’s a good day. Savor it. On the tough days, take time and look around and recognize that it’s still a good day. We all woke up this morning – hooray! We have food to eat, clothes on our backs, a place to live, people around us – there is always, always, always something to thankful for. Take the time to be grateful. Every day. Period.

You will not always be able to choose how things turn out in your life. But, you always have the power to decide how you will react to them. And that, my friends, will make all the difference in the long run. I’m talking about big things – choosing to learn the beautiful life lessons that a dying loved one is imparting rather than wallowing in feelings of sadness during the final days, hours, and moments. And, the little things – have you noticed how sweet the air smells sometimes, how many colors God puts into each sunset for us to enjoy, or even just how beautiful the smiles of the people around you are?

Graduates – fifteen years from now you will almost certainly look back on pictures from this time of your life and marvel at how pretty, skinny, strong, and beautiful you were. Trust me on this. Why not go ahead and give yourself permission to feel that way right now? In fact, why don’t we all go ahead and give ourselves permission to feel that way right now? Why not choose to savor all the good stuff life has to offer right here, right now, in this moment? We will never again get the chance to be here and now. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?

In the interest of not overstaying my welcome, I’ve decided to condense the rest of my pithy advice down to a simple list. Here goes: floss your teeth; start saving for your retirement today;  eat well most of the time, but pig out every once in a while on something truly delicious; be nice to old people; don’t ever think too highly of yourself, or let someone make you think to little of yourself; don’t whine; don’t forget how to play; walk in the woods at least once a year – it’s good for the soul; be polite to police officers, soldiers, waitresses and waiters, librarians, checkout people – oh, what the heck – be polite to everyone; don’t use cuss words; wear clothes you like, not clothes that everyone says you should wear; be an active and informed citizen;  make a budget and stick to it; hug people; sit up straight, be on time (still working on this one myself).

And, remember – it’s not just in the big transitions – like moves and graduations – that we have the chance to make the changes we want to in our lives. Every moment is an opportunity to take a step toward becoming the person that this world needs us to be. Happy trails, everyone. Here’s to a roads well traveled, and lives well lived….

Photoblog: Deck the Halls

My kids have chickenpox. Bad. They also have cabin fever, sibling rivalry, and pale complexion from calamine lotion. A mouse got into my cupboards (all of the cupboards, apparently) and delighted in acts of rodent defecation all over my clean dishes. All that, and it snowed. Seriously - I'm in need of some cheering up. Care to join me?

We live in a really cool old one-room school house. For the bulk of our time living here we've been too busy or too distracted to really capitalize on the charm and appeal of a Schoolhouse Christmas. This year - varmints and diseases be darned - we're pulling out all the stops. We have already decorated, and continue to make cutesy crafts to supplement our already-decadent decor. (I'm a bit sleep deprived, here. Forgive me for substituting alliteration for truly clever writing today.) We're even hosting our very first, grown-up Christmas party (complete with mulled cider and fancy finger foods), and a Christmas Tea for my co-workers. Oh yeah - we're rockin' this Christmas season.

So, in keeping with our festive theme, I'm going to ignore the piles of laundry and the stacks of dishes, and take you on a tour of the well-decked halls of Evergreen Schoolhouse. Enjoy.

 

Our first stop is the upstairs dining room - aglow with a peaceful light and the soft sound of brilliant children thinking about their peaceful game of chess. Yes - it's always like this. Always.

 

Next up is the cozy living room. Note how the piano is invitingly calling your name. "Come play with me! Sing a rousing carol or two. Invite your friends to join." (It's a bit needy.) Of course, the seasonal central feature of this room is our tree. So pretty. 

This is what our tree looked like when we first put it up. Lovely, but needs a little something - don't you think? 

This is our tree after a visit from the Tinsel Fairy. (Note - this is not an entity my family was aware of when I was a child. It only entered our lives after I married Mark. Late one night. When everyone was asleep. Leaving its handiwork for all to see (and cats to play with, and vacuums to clean up). 

I must admit - ever since that first (and subsequent) midnight visit from the Tinsel Fairy, I always think a tree looks a bit naked (or, at least under dressed) without some shiny floss.

But, the tree is far from the only glamorous thing around here. (Besides us, of course.)  We've hung up lots of lovely features - like  these decorations in the windows and doors.

 

 And even put out a bowl of lovely glass balls. Oooohhh - shiny!

No chimney (save the stove pipe, which gets really hot), so we hung stockings on the steps. It works!

Best of all - our Nativities!

We've had some accidents, of course. Besides just these, heads have also rolled. Joseph's and a shepherd's head, to be exact. A little glue fixed 'em up, though. I think they're going to pull thru. 

Besides just these broken pieces, we also have some other interesting features to our Nativity sets. For example - this one is missing Jesus. Kind of a big deal. I debated whether or not to get rid of it entirely, but it's a lovely, old, nine-piece set. So, the wise men and Mary and Joseph now look adoringly at a little lamb. It's actually scripturally accurate, in a way, and much less blasphemous than putting in a troll doll.

This set is one of my favorites. They're almost a foot tall, and gleaming in brilliant jewel tones. Unfortunately, I couldn't get a decent picture without also having our wall chart of the presidents involved. That's right - home schoolers decorate their walls with geeky learning things. Might be a bit ugly, but once you hear a four-year-old sing all the presidents in order you'll agree - it's totally worth it. 

 Continuing in that theme, we also left our presidential flashcards up. I mean, people like to *receive* dead presidents for Christmas. Don't you think they'll also want to *look at* dead presidents as well? 

And, finally, here's the part where you come in. See - I've hung up a lovely ribbon from which to hang all of the Christmas cards we receive, and photos from our upcoming holiday events. I'm saving a spot on there just for you. See it - right there?  Yep - that's your own special place in the very decked halls of Evergreen School. Can't wait to see you there!

Merry Christmas, all!

Happy Sacher Torte Day!

Well, who knew? According to louderbacks.com, today, apparently, is Sacher Torte Day. (That'll teach you to rely on the internet for all of your information!) I know that the squares on my calendar are pretty small, but how could this treasure of a holiday have been left off? Turns out, Sacher Torte Day is really only big in Vienna. Had I consulted my Austrian calendar, I'm sure it would have been on there. You live, you learn.

So, what exactly do you do on Sacher Torte Day? Is there a costume you have to wear? Special song to sing? Hallmark card to send? Nope. Franz Sacher was a baker who invented an especially yummy kind of chocolate cake that he dubbed 'the Sacher Torte.' He has gone down in history as a national hero. This cake was so good that it's still made today - over 150 years after the first one came out of the oven - and can only be purchased in three or four bakeries around the world. There were literally lawsuits over this delicacy - fortunes made and fortunes lost. Wow - all for a cake.

I may not exactly be Franz Sacher, but I do have a few recipes up my sleeve that I'm kind of proud of. They may not make me rich or famous, but they do make my family smile. In the long run, that's worth far more than fame or fortune anyway. So, I'm choosing to celebrate Sacher Torte day by making my crowd-pleasing chili and a boxed chocolate cake. Is that sacrilegious? Maybe, but we've all got to find our niches in the world, and in the kitchen. Happy Franz Sacher Day, and happy eating. :)

Want to try to make your own Franz Sacher Torte? Check out this recipe:
http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/wolfgang-puck/wolfgangs-sachertorte-recipe/index.html

For those of you who aren't exactly up to making a Franz Sacher Torte, you might like this one instead:
http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,176,150187-236194,00.html

Grooming Tips for the Uninitiated

I believe I've mentioned before that I'm not exactly what you might call a girly girl. (If I haven't - what was I thinking? There's enough blog fodder there to last for months!) I do try to stay presentable, of course, even if my standards are way lower than those of most of the ladies I know. (Hint: I do not have makeup. None. Don't even own a tube of lipstick.Seriously.)

For me, grooming generally involves brushing and flossing (the former everyday, the latter as often as I remember, or when an overwhelming sense of guilt prompts me to action, or when a visit to the dentist is imminent.), washing my hair (Suave shampoo and conditioner, often not even matching scents), and shaving (for special occasions, or at least before doing so would clog the bathtub drain - whichever comes first). Beyond hacking back the tangled undergrowth of underarm hair once in a while, and battling bad breath, I'm not over fussy when it comes to grooming. That is why it is all the more perplexing (to me, and especially to them) that God gifted me with three lovely girls.

My younger two, so far, are on board with my fuss-free philosophy. In fact, they'd probably never brush their teeth or hair, if given the chance. However, my oldest daughter is dangerously close to actually being a teenager, and even more dangerously close to acting like one. She has discovered all kinds of new-fangled things: like straightening irons, sweeping updos, and 'product'. This last one really threw me for a loop. I took her for a simple haircut about a year ago, and she and the stylist (barber, for us oldschool types) chatted away comfortably about 'product' the whole time. Seriously - it was liking trying to decipher a secret code. From what I gathered, there is apparently shampoo and conditioner out there that does stuff other than just get your hair clean and tangle free. I'm not exactly clear on all the details, but I have learned that it costs more than 88 cents a bottle, and is dearly coveted by my daughter. I'll have to look into this more.

For now, I am just trying to keep up. When she asks me about a specific nail painting technique or piece of fancy-pants hair technology, I usually just smile and nod. (And call my girly friends.) But, despite feeling like a blind person in a foreign (and expensive) land, I couldn't be happier. This is why motherhood is so great - I'm going to get to learn something new right alongside her. Inside I am screaming, "Don't buy into the Hollywood lies! You're beautiful the way you are! Run! Escape! Flee while you still can!" But, I somehow doubt that haranguing my pre-teen with these esoteric sentiments would be the best choice. So, I'm gonna learn to get girly too, even if it comically (though temporarily) disfigures us both. Remember - I'm going to have to teach this girl about makeup in a few years. Yikes.

For now, she's grateful for my help - however little I have to offer, and I am learning how to browse in the cosmetic and haircare aisle without breaking out into spots, seizures, or sermons. I think we're going to make it through this, and (if I can get past my prejudices and preconceived notions) we might even look good doing so. Watch out world - the Farrier girls are coming thru! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go figure out what on earth shine serum and straightening balm are. They sound like the perfect antidote to expensive dental and orthodontic visits, but I'm betting I've got it all wrong...

Smart Woman / Stupid Moments

I am a smart gal. I've even got test scores from high school to prove it. I certainly am no Einstein, and there will be probably not be anything named after me when I am dead, but I like to think I can hold my own in the realm of ideas. Even after having had three children (which does, let's be honest, tend to diminish capacity just a tiny bit, at least in the eyes of your teenagers), I still get at least 60% of the questions right when I watch re-runs of Jeopardy on TV, and can generally fill in ten to fifteen words in the Sunday crossword puzzle before I get bored, distracted, or need to clean up a spill. I guess you could say that I've got it goin' on in the brain department.

This is why I am all the more amused and confused when I get bemused. (See - only a smart person could string those words together, right?) My problem is that I am kind of book smart, and not always real-world smart. My friend laughs at me for being so capable of deconstructing the obscure literature of unknown writers, but unable to order a sandwich at the drive-thru without practically breaking into tears. I am the woman ahead of you at the grocery store, holding up the line, because I have forgotten to push the 'do you want cash back' button on the credit card machine. (Seriously - I just want to pay for my groceries, not have a relationship. Why does it ask so many questions!?)

Vending machines cause me a bit of anxiety. The main reason I never started drinking coffee was my profound fear of ordering at Starbucks. Seriously... people who can do that without quaking in fear (or because of the caffeine overload) deserve Noble prizes.  In short, I am a smart woman who has trouble with the simple things, which has led to many, many stupid moments. Typically, I try to keep these to myself (you know - to preserve the whole 'smart woman' reputation I'm trying to cultivate). However, my last trip to Oklahoma brought several of these to the surface, and I thought that it would be cathartic to confess my stupidity, rather than holding it in any longer. (That, and since I experienced them with several people around, I can no longer be assured that they will be kept secret without having to pay off or kill some folks.) Perhaps admitting to my problem it will help me overcome it. At the very least, I hope it will provide a bit of comfort if you've had similar moments, or a bit of mirth if you have not.

So, I present to you, my top five 'Duh' moments (that I can remember and am willing to admit to)...

1.) As we drove into Oklahoma, I started seeing lots of signs for Indian smoke shops. I was very excited, since I really like smoked meat. My imagination started to run away with me, as I envisioned wizened native Americans offering smoked buffalo, venison, perhaps even something exotic like rattlesnake or turtle. It was at the point that I was actually trying to figure out how much room we would have in the cargo area of the van that I realized that Indian smoke shops sell smokes. You know - cigarettes. Cuz they can. Without as many taxes attached. Cuz it's Oklahoma. Duh.

2.) Last year we went to the International Cattle Dog trials. You know - where people train fuzzy, black-and-white collies to go and fetch the cows. (Why has no one thought to train dogs to do the same for children in parking lots and grocery stores? Hmm....) Anyway, there were only about 100 people there total, including the trainers and audience. After the sixth white cane that I saw, I started to wonder what it was about this sport that drew so many blind people. I mean, surely it couldn't that interesting to just listen to the whistles and moos, could it? What kind of a spectator sport would this be for someone who couldn't see? Yep - that's right. I actually thought that for a few minutes, before it dawned on me that the cattle dog owners use the white canes to point out instructions and directions to the dogs. Does make you wonder, though - how much more challenging would it be if you had to blindfold the owners. Or the dogs... Just sayin'. Duh.

3.) (You might need to be from the south to understand this one.) On our way down to Oklahoma, I mentioned that I didn't know the names of the Duke boys from the popular TV show from the 80's called The Dukes of Hazard. (This, for you Yankees, is akin to not knowing how to wipe your own nose or spell your own name. In the south, the latter two are optional, but knowing about the Dukes is not.) I said something about hearing the names Crockett and Tubbs on a movie, and thinking, "Oh - that must be the names of the Dukes boys." (Even as I type this, I am filled with shame.) See - that was my mistake. I thought I had been dumb for not knowing something, and smart once I finally figured it out. Although (and, you've probably already noticed this by now, especially if you've ever lived south of the Mason-Dixon line) Crockett and Tubbs are not the Dukes brothers. They, apparently, are from the equally-popular 1980's television show called Miami Vice. For the record, the Dukes boys are named Bo and Luke. If you ever get confused about that yourself (which I doubt you would), you can simply call anyone - literally, anyone - in a southern area code and ask. They'll be able to tell you. Even a five-year old, though I cannot be trusted when it comes to these things. Duh.

4.) We had just finished with a lovely meal, and I was clearing the table. Noting that there was a lot of liquid wax in the candle, I wondered what I should do with it. (Note - the right answer is JUST LEAVE IT! Trust me on this one.) I decided - because I am brilliant - that I should dump it down the drain. Now, lest you think that I am a total idiot, I want to point out that I was smart enough to know that wax does cool. So, to counteract the cooling effect, I ran hot water down the drain with the wax. (Yes, I was trying to mitigate my own stupid, but sometimes effort does not replace intelligence.) As I'm sure you can imagine, the wax hardened in the trap, and clogged the sink. You'd think - as many times as I had put my finger into liquid wax (and felt the burn), and watched that wax harden on my finger - that I would be able to foresee the hazards of my dumb decision. But, I did not. That's what we call a stupid moment. Duh.

5.) And, finally - the piece de resistance. (See - I AM smart. I know some fancy French words!) I wish I could say that the last stupid moment ended there, but it did not. (I guess you could call this a whole stupid evening.)

After clogging the sink, I called to my dear, saintly husband (who rescues me in such situations), and told him what had happened. After looking at me and shaking his head ruefully, he put a pan under the sink and began loosening the plumbing. Once he got the trap off, the water from the sink drained into the pan, and quickly filled it up. He hollered for me to hand him a big bowl, which I did, and asked me to dump the pan. I grabbed it and (oh yes I did - you can see it coming) promptly dumped it back down the drain. (He told me to empty it. That's where you empty stuff, right!?)  Duh.

Have I mentioned that my husband is a saint? Sputtering (both from the water that had cascaded down on him from above and the utter stupidity that his very smart wife had just exhibited) he thanked me and said he would handle plumbing situations by himself in the future. That is probably the smartest decision he has ever made. But, then again - he doesn't suffer from stupid moments like I do, so his decisions are almost always smart.

Note: He did get his revenge (which resulted in another 'Duh' moment for me.) Several months later I was watching TV at my parents' house. They have Dish Network. This, also, confuses me. I wanted to see what shows were going to be on a particular channel much later that afternoon, so I kept hitting the right arrow button. The screen would blink momentarily before revealing the next two hours of programming. I had done this three or four times when my dear, sweet husband (have I mentioned that he's not always a saint?) casually said, "You know it costs your parents a quarter every time you do that, don't you?" I froze - desperately trying to calculate how much cost I had incurred - a task made all the more difficult because I'm not so hot at math or remembering details like how many times I had hit a button. He finally couldn't contain himself, and grinned. Duh!

Don't worry - I'll get back at him, though. I'm pretty sure there's a drip in the bathroom sink, and I'll just offer to help him fix it. Stay tuned for more stupid moments to come...

Going Home...

I just got back from a whirlwind trip back to my home state. My best friend and I went together, along with our five little girls. Yes - that's right. There were seven females confined to one small space for ten hours straight. Twice. Giggles ensued.

The whole way down my friend and I solved the world's problems - discussing politics, religion, finances, healthcare, and (especially) parenting. I don't know why the UN can't seem to get it together. We pretty much had everything figured out before we even got to Kansas City, even while having to hand back kleenex and snacks at regular intervals. Maybe that's it - someone needs to bus up all the delegates and make them ride across country until they get to that mellow, silly stage that occurs about three hours in.

I don't know what it is about road trips that makes people so goofy. It's a bit like being drunk, I think, but with less risk for hangover. It helped, for us, that we shared common memories from way back then, and still have much in common today. Every mile we drove away from our homes took us a mile closer to home, so to speak. The drive there may have only taken ten hours, but we arrived twenty-five years younger and in a whole different world. It was, truly, a trip down memory lane.

Lee Ann and I are Okies from Muskogee. Merle Haggard crooned about being proud to come from a place with such inherent tradition, simplicity, and changelessness back in 1969, and I get it. Muskogee, Oklahoma wasn't buying into the gyrations that the rest of the United States was going through then, and it isn't today either. The store fronts may have changed, but the heart hasn't. Somehow time really does stand still in that small southern town, and even more so forty-miles to the south, in the even sleepier hamlet of Eufaula - our home town.

I've always found it strange that when I tell people I grew up in the South, they reply, "Oh, Oklahoma isn't really the south." Seriously? It's really hot, and people talk funny. Doesn't that qualify?  Granted, Oklahoma was Indian Territory during the Civil War (another common indicator of whether or not people consider a state 'southern' or not), but I went to Dixie Elementary, and our high school was called Jefferson Davis. See - southern to the core. Plus, anyone who's ever been there from here can attest - it is different. It's the South.

When I first got there, I was greedy for all the sights, and sounds, and memories this little town held for me. I saw places that I thought I had only dreamed, but now they stood before me in the thin, fall sunshine in all of their solid glory. They really were real! The experience was at once unnerving and comforting - a bit like finding your keys right where you just got done looking. You're glad to have them, but still somehow a bit perplexed. Each twist in the road and blooming flower triggered a new sensory overload. My brain was like a pinball machine - lighting up in dusty, forgotten corners. Experiences and memories welled to the surface, clawed their way to the front of the crowd, burst into the room - each singing and hollering excitedly at being validated and proven true. But, the best part was hearing the voices of my home town again.

 My cousin (whom I used to live next door to, and haven't seen in a quarter of a century) sat across the table from me and related a story about being surprised by something, and said she, "... 'bout fell out on the floor." My friend's dad greeted us with a grin as we pulled up in his driveway and apologized for not being able to "hug us around the neck" because he had "greazy hands". I got called darlin' and honey and sugar more times than I can count, and each one was like a lovely embrace. It felt good to hear 'fixin to' and 'ya'll' in regular conversation, and I could have spread those deep, smoothy, buttery accents  on a piece of homemade bread and eaten it for breakfast. I may have been only six when we left Oklahoma, but a southern drawl will always be a favorite lullaby to me.

But, all things must come to an end. Even in the midst of being comfortably enveloped by my own childhood, and even with as much as things really had stayed the same, I realized they were different. Or, more accurately, I was. Iowa is not Oklahoma. The North is not the South. There is a distinct difference - culturally, economically, socially. I treasure my memories from there and the way that it colored my personality. I love to tell the stories, hear the accents, hug the people, eat the food. I appreciate more than words can express that there is a place where I can go and step right back into my perfectly-preserved past, but I was also very glad to get back into the van and make the ten hour drive back to my future.

Having already solved the world's problems on the way down, Lee Ann and I let our exhausted brains have free-reign on the drive back, and got really silly. Somehow every road sign was comment-worthy, and every billboard was hilarious. Desperate to document the entirety of our trip, I took photos of the inside of the van, the tollbooth at the turnpike, and even of the girls doing jumping jacks at a rest area. (I told you we got silly.) Scattered amongst our giggles and snorts we processed our time in Oklahoma together. What had been good.  What had been surprising. What had been difficult. At one point, after hours of talking, a moment of silence settled over the vehicle, and we summed up our shared history and trip the same way  - we're glad we came from there.

We pulled into home just after suppertime and smiled as a gaggle of children poured out of the van to hug the two waiting daddies. The sights, sounds, and smells around me didn't arouse the same electric thrill of rediscovery as the ones in Oklahoma had, but familiarity sure feels good too. I hugged my husband, rushed my tired children into our waiting car, and waved goodbye to my friend - who was already engaged in doing all the same things herself. Going back to our shared childhood home together had been a wonderful trip, but coming back home was the best thing of all.

The Making of a Strong Heart

My husband is an awesome man, and we have a wonderful marriage. Since we are two distinct and separate people, our endeavor to walk the same path together often includes disagreement, and even the occasional argument. After over a decade of marriage, I've discovered that the act and actions of disagreement itself is often what leads couples to argue, and not necessarily the different opinions that started the discussion in the first place.

When my husband and I argue, it is usually because I have withdrawn to lick my wounds about how I feel about what he said. That's, invariably, what escalates a discussion into an argument at our house. It's typically got nothing to do with the honest, constructive things that he has said, and everything to do with my reactions to them. Specifically, when my husband shares his needs, thoughts, and desires with me, it highlights all that I have not been, done, or accomplished for him or our family. When that happens, I find myself sinking under the feeling that I am not the wife that he deserves. I know there are different nuances and finer points in each situation. And, I have only written about my role in our arguments. He faces his own thoughts and fears, and has his own culpability, but the main thread under all of our arguments is one thing - insecurity.

When we argue, I cover my feelings of guilt by saying that he's been brusque, or not gentle enough, or harsh in the words and tone of voice that he has chosen to use. In reality, though, I am simply trying to re-focus the spotlight onto him in order to not drag my shame and shortfalls out into the open. That's a lot of theatrics to impose on someone just because I don't want to face up to the places where I've lacked - especially since he's always had grace for me when I have been honest with him. The bottom line is that it is not the words he chose or the way he chose to say them that I'm upset about. I'm upset about me.

Mark is a man. He does not think or talk like I do. But, that doesn't mean that I don't have the ability or responsibility to understand what he's saying, even if he doesn't use the words my delicate, feminine nature wishes he would. I can make the choice to circumvent his heart-felt and honest words because I don't like the way they're delivered, or I can be realistic about our differences so that I can understand his needs and desires, and make the changes necessary to bring us closer.  It is the same with the Lord.

The scriptures talk often about the fact that God's church is his bride. I know that to be true corporately, but our relationship individually with the Lord is much the same. I myself am his bride, and I can easily get confused about what I should do or how I should go about doing things in life. Instead of looking to Him and listening to his direction and instruction, I often shy away from his leading because it comes in a way that is not palatable to me - not how I want to hear it. So, I harden my heart. The reality is that I could make things a lot more simple and successful with my earthly husband, and my heavenly one as well, if I would choose to strengthen my feminine heart, instead of hardening it - and there's a big difference.

The process of hardening something - like metal, for example - usually leads it to be impenetrable. Once changed, it is difficult (if not impossible) to re-soften it in order for other elements to be mixed in. To harden steel, you heat it quickly, and cool it quickly - much like our hearts are quick to burn with anger, and quick to turn to icy resentment. While having an impenetrable, hard substance (or heart), may seem like a good idea, it most often turns brittle, and can shatter when not handled with care.

When you strengthen something, however, the process is very different. To strengthen metal, you must first refine it, and rid it of all impurities. What is left, then, can be relied upon to be consistent and stable, no matter what trials you put it through. To that pure substance, then, other elements are added - elements that are tested and proven to be beneficial. To make strong metal, workers add carbon, which changes its very structure on a cellular level. It makes the metal pliable, and easier to mold and work with. To make a strong heart, the Lord gives us the Holy Spirit, which changes our very nature, as well, and produces the same characteristics in us that carbon produces in steel - the ability to be turned into something useful and flexible. The final act of strengthening has to do with a repeated heating and cooling process - very precise, very slow, very painstaking. This is not a process that the human flesh finds comfortable, but it is one which produces proven, lasting, life-changing results - a strong heart.

The end product with either substance - be it heated metal, or a tested heart - is going to be the same, depending on how the process is carried out. You will either find yourself with hardness that encases impurities, does not allow for the acceptance of new things, and will ultimately end up shattered and broken. Or, you will end up having strength, durability, usefulness, and timelessness. I know which one I want for my heart, and am going to have to make the choice - moment by moment - to embrace the process of achieving it.

So, I am challenging myself to listen to the true words of instruction that I receive - no matter how they may come, or how much they may shed light on my insecurities and shortfalls. Choosing to cover them over will never rid me of them, but exposing them to the clear light of a refining flame will. And, I am determined to give thanks for the ones wielding the refining fire in my life; focusing on the good their work is doing, instead of the challenge it presents to me personally. A strong heart - that can be of daily use and comfort to my husband and my Lord - is well worth it.

I invite you (especially the wives out there) to join me in this challenge, and start looking for the ways that you withdraw from the refining process. Would you really choose a hardened heart, when strength can be your portion? Would you really choose to protect what you already have, even if means never being able to let anything else in? Is what you have (and who you are) right now really what you want to have and be forever, anyway? I didn't think so. So, ladies - let's face the refining fire together, and be grateful for people who are willing to wield the flame. (And, let's not fool ourselves into thinking their job is a piece of cake, either.)

Want to be encouraged as you walk through this process? Check out these two really awesome blogs, which inspire me to keep my heart close to the refiners in my life, even when it hurts. The first is a dear friend of mine who got married just a few months ago, and who is honestly sharing her daily insights as a young wife. The other is a dear friend who got married years ago, and who clarifies the role of a wife so well as she shares her insights as a seasoned wife. I hope they'll encourage you, just as they have for me. Until next time - may we all embrace the process of building strong hearts.

Great Blogs You Should Follow:

The Neesby Lookbook - by Nicole Neesby

The Respect Dare - by Nina Roesner

Hair!

If I never hear the word hair again, it will be too soon. You see - I have three daughters. And, they all have hair. And that hair - it has to be brushed. I know - none of those things are startling revelations in and of themselves, but there is a deeper meaning behind each one that has led me to consider encouraging them to enter a Buddhist monastery, but only for the haircut and to save on laundry expenses. Let me explain.

First off - I have three daughters. You know - girls. That means they have feelings. Lots of them, and they like to express those feelings. All the time. Out loud. I usually don't have conversations, per se. Instead, I'm often on the receiving end of a rapid-fire, three-fold conversational assault. The pre-teen fires, and I volley back, simultaneously returning a query from my seven-year-old. We continue this parlay for whole minutes at a time, while I dodge the constant tommy-gun prattle that my four-year-old deftly aims my direction. To put it lightly, they like to talk about what they're thinking, feeling, and experiencing. They are each very strong, but none is what you might call the silent type. That's because they're daughters.

The next deeply unnerving truth in my life - my daughters all have hair. Yes, I'm glad they have hair, especially in light of the fact that the oldest was nearly bald until she was 2 1/2. But, those days are gone. Now, they're all fully-tressed, each with lustrous, healthy, gorgeous heads of hair. One has highlights that would make even the most skilled hairdresser weep with jealousy. One has hair so benevolent and compliant that it can practically curl, shine, or French-Roll on command. The other has such perfect, uniform, ringlet curls that we literally have to schedule an extra fifteen minutes into our errand-running days, just so we aren't made late by all the people who stop to compliment her. In short, these girls have got it going on in the hair department. Why, you ask, does that make me want to weep copiously and head for the hills? Simple - with great hair, comes great responsibility, which leads me to point number three.


Hair must be brushed. Seems simple enough, doesn't it? But - let me assure you - when you combine point number one (girls who love to talk about what they're feeling) and point number two (girls with tons of hair of varying temperaments), it makes you really start to reconsider the full ramifications of point number three (that hair must be brushed). Sure, the act of hair brushing itself is simple enough. But, so is changing a flat tire, unless it's 32 degrees, raining cats and dogs, and the cars are honking and speeding by your head, mere inches away. This, in a nutshell, is how I've come to view our daily grooming ritual. I feel like I've got post-traumatic stress disorder from my previous run-ins with tangles, tender heads, and tantrums. It's gotten so bad lately that I've begun contemplating alternatives to the dreaded morning ritual. Perhaps they don't really need their hair brushed every day after all... I'm sure they would look very good in hats... How long does it take to do cornrows?... Hmmm...

In the interest of full disclosure (and, mostly, to make sure you don't think ill of me or my wonderful children), I should note that we have tried every tangle spray and different brush type in the universe, but to no avail. And, though I do sincerely (ardently, feverishly, fully, and earnestly) hope that my children will grow out of their tenderheadedness, I don't look for that to happen any time in the near future, since I still suffer from the dreaded disorder myself. We generally run a pretty tight ship around here when it comes to behavior, but I don't blame the girls for their vociferous reluctance to get their hair brushed. I, on occasion, still let a mild utterance or shriek fly when encountering my own tangles, after all.

So, there's nothing left to do but restrain myself from drastic measures, and keep enduring the screaming, struggling, fighting, flailing, ouching, oohing, ahhing trio, until their tresses are tamed, or baldness becomes the new style for little girls. After all - I have three daughters. They all have hair, and hair must be brushed. And so, we soldier on together.

Ready, Set, WRITE!

I like to blog. I like to send emails. I like to do Facebook updates. I even like to compose letters in my head that I would send to famous people about great injustices that I think have been committed, and how they could (and should) be made right. (Mostly, these are in the form of scathing rebuttals to my congressman about the trite and pandering general communiques he sends out. Sometimes they are also letters to food companies about their insistence on including calories in their otherwise-perfect desserts.) In short, I love to write.

I know most people do not feel the same way, and that's ok. Except, well... it isn't. I'm an English teacher. It is our goal in life (there are whole fraternities and international organizations devoted to it) is to encourage people to communicate, and to communicate well. Yes, I admit that I sometimes get hung up on being an eagle-eyed punctuation Nazi, but what I most love about reading and responding to people's writing is getting a chance to know what and how they think. That, ultimately, is the goal of writing. It is an act akin to opening up your brain and letting people probe about its inner reaches. 'Cause, here's the thing - there is a story inside each of us. No one experiences the world exactly like you do. No one has the same history as you, input as you, understanding as you, or insight as you. Who you are, what you know, and how you live your life is spectacularly unique! Kudos to you.

Now - share it with the world! Today is the perfect day to start translating that magnificent life inside your head, outside your head - so that everyone can enjoy it. Go on - spit it out, already! If you love art, do art. If you love music, do music. If you love dance, do dance. Don't know what you love? Well - maybe you should give writing a try. Really - it's not hard to do. You don't have to start well, or follow a format, or punctuate and spell correctly. Just sit down and see what comes out of you. I bet you'll be pleasantly surprised, and that will encourage you to continue. At the very least, you will be putting to use the skills some dedicated English teacher taught you, thereby making him/her very happy. Come on - if you don't want to tell your story for my sake, or your own sake, do it for the English teachers!

Ok - maybe that didn't do it for you, and you need more of a buy-in to get you started. How about this - I challenge you to join me (and hundreds-of-thousands of others) who are participating in National Novel Writing Month. NaNoWriMo is a chance to spew forth the stories within you with reckless abandon. The ultimate goal is the completion of a 50,000 word novel by 11:59:59 on 11/30. There are no winners or losers. No one gets a prize at the end. The rules are whatever you make them. No one has to read your novel but you. You are only competing with yourself, and your own desire to share your story with the world. It's free, easy, and good for your brain. Best of all, there isn't a single calorie involved!

What are you waiting for!?  I'm already 740 words into my novel - Duckworth For Congress. It's all about intrigue, mystery, romance, politics, and space invaders. At least, it might be. I haven't decided yet. Guess we'll see where the next 29 days and 49,260 words takes me. It would really do this English teacher's heart some good to know that she had inspired someone to pursue the act of artful communication. So, check it out - and be sure to leave me a comment about how you are choosing to share your story with the world. Ready, set - WRITE!

http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Finishing Well

I recently engaged in a very personal and meaningful ritual - my annual eve-of-the-hard-frost harvest. It is my chance to go out and love the plants I've tended so carefully one last time, and reap their final benefit to me for the season. It is a sad thing, in many ways, but not without its joys. Yes, I will miss the warm breeze and the feel of sun-baked soil under my toes as I picked ripe tomatoes from the garden for supper. But, I will not miss the sweat-dripping, head-pounding, mind-numbing monotony of pulling weed, after weed, after endless weed. Can I get an amen on that?

This harvest, ostensibly, is simply an act of salvaging what little good is left on that patch of dirt before it gets abandoned. In the past, that is exactly how I've thought of it. This year, however, I'm trying to be more contemplative. (Apparently I am going to get in touch with my inner philosopher in my thirties. Who knew?) Though harvest is about salvaging what is useful, it is also a time to reflect. I made sure to focus, as I picked the last few peppers and tough-skinned eggplant, at how abundant our garden had been this year, how nicely it looked because I took the time to keep it maintained, and how many happy hours it had provided me. I guess you could say that the ritual this time was focused equally as much on the figurative fruits my little plot had provided in life, as it was on the literal ones it had provided for my table.

More than that, however - beyond living in the glorious abundance of that moment, or reflecting on the goodness and benefit of the many months prior -  I also turned my thoughts to the future. Most importantly, I turned my efforts to it as well. You see, in the past I have never put my garden to bed well. Like a thief fleeing from the scene of a crime , I tended to pluck my goodies and run for the hills, leaving the fallout of tangled vines and withered weeds to be worried about the following spring. This year, I left only a clean, bare patch of dirt behind in order that I might be productive next spring when life is bursting forth, rather than scrambling to prepare.

Yes, my garden has been good to me. I planted peppers and egg plants, and harvested wisdom and life lessons. Funny how it works that way, isn't it? Perhaps there are more similarities than we care to admit between finishing a growing season well in your garden, and finishing a growing season well in your life. Babies grow up. Friends move away. Jobs come and go. Relationships change. I don't claim to know all the answers, of course (far from it!), but maybe some of the lessons I learned while scratching around in the dirt this year might be useful as you face your own seasons of life. For example:

This year, I chose not to close my eyes to the inevitable change that the chilly air around me signaled, because the warmth of my eagerly-wished-for sunshine cannot protect me from the frost.  I chose to recognize that sometimes you have to clear things out of your life in order to leave clean and fertile soil for something new to grow - even if those things have been fruitful for you in the past. And, though the freeze may have robbed my garden of the chance for any further growth this season, it certainly doesn't mean that it did the same for me. After all - the end of one season always signals the beginning of another. I'd say, all in all, it's been a good harvest, and I'm very grateful for the fruitfulness it has provided in my life.

Kelly

Every once in a while you get a do-over in life, and it is awesome. While I have been blessed with family, friends, and acquaintances that are incomparable in both quantity and quality, I have had very, very few besties in my life. I've got my family besties, my hubby bestie, and my life-long girlfriend bestie. Besides that, I have had only one other, and that didn't end well, I'm very sad to say. It has grieved me for a long time, and I have often felt regret over the loss of the relationship, and sadness to not have that other close friend my life. It was good while it lasted, but I had resigned myself to never again knowing the joy of an all-out, souls-bared, pedal-to-the-medal, life-changing bestie again. Then, I met Kelly.

Kelly loved me from moment one, in a way that was both comforting and off-putting at the same time. She accepted me. She encouraged me. She knew me, and it was unnerving. I couldn't hide from Kelly, but I realized that I didn't want to - or have to - either. Somehow this brazen, brash woman was telling me all the truths I didn't want to accept and the advice I didn't want to hear, and I found myself loving her for it.

So, because of our exciting, wonderful friendship, we did all the usual exciting, wonderful things that friends do. She painted my bathroom. I helped her load her moving truck. We stood over the kitchen sink and ate chicken salad on romaine lettuce. We talked about parents and parenting, children and chickens, husbands and humanity. We cried together. We laughed together. We sweated together, and then cried and laughed about that together too. It was awesome.

And then, one day, we did tie dye, and ate snackies, and she moved across the country. Here it was - happening all over. My bestie was gone, and I figured I would once again be left with regret over the loss of the relationship, and sadness to not have that other close friend my life. But, that's where I'd be wrong. Kelly may live 869.7 miles away, but I have learned that true besties never really leave you, even when they go away.

Kelly still talks me down, though it's via email, phone, or instant messages these days. Her handiwork is still evident in my life - both figuratively and literally - and I often find myself chuckling over shared moments we had together. We may not have lazy Monday afternoons and pop-in craft and chat sessions, but at least we can still share special occasions, like today. You see, it's Kelly's birthday. I wish we could have spent the day together, watching our children play and solving all the world's problems. But, that's kind of hard when you're this far apart. Instead, I'll cherish memories, look forward to the fun we'll have together in the future, and I'll share with her one of the best gifts I ever received - this really great gal named Kelly. Happy birthday, bestie! Thanks for being awesome in my life.

Help a Girl Out?

You may recall that I have a history of pleading and begging for help when I enter contests with ridiculously big prizes, and ridiculously-low odds of winning. I don't know what it is that compels me to do such things, except that I really love a challenge, and I am an eternal optimist. Well, that - and the fact that I've been incredibly blessed with supportive, encouraging, willing participants in my big-dream schemes. (This is where you come in.)

Reader's Digest magazine has piqued my interest with a contest entitled "Your Life: The Reader's Digest Version." Compelling, no? Anyway - as you (my faithful readers) can attest, I'm nothing if not capable of writing on, and on, and on about my life. The gauntlet that RD has thrown down, though, strikes fear into my very soul: in this contest, you're only allowed 150 words. 150 words? Seriously!? That's like asking a knight of olde to go into battle armed with a butter knife and a pizza box shield.  I use more than that 150 words to order at a drive up window - and that's just when I want a snack. Hmmm...

After 1,549 edits, I have finally compiled an entry that I *hope* will be provocative, powerful, and popular. Better yet, it meets all the criteria, and I even finished with three words to spare. :) Wanna help make my dream come true, and my bank account $25,000 bigger? (Ohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease....)  Here's what you can do:

1.) Go to facebook.com/readersdigest. Click 'like' on the page, and proceed to the contest tab.
2.) From there, find my story! It's called 'Sunshine'. Or, you can search by author's name (Andrea Farrier). VOTE FOR ME!!!!
3.) Repeat daily between now and November 15th.
4.) Share this information with everyone you've ever met, and ask them to do the same.
5.) Savor the warm, fuzzy feeling of knowing how much I appreciate your help. :)

Only the top 100 vote earners will be considered for the grand prize. So, I've got to make sure my entry gets to (and stays in) the top 100.

Judging is based 35% on originality, 35% on adherence to the contest theme, and 30% on persuasiveness. The theme of the contest is to share a lesson, simple advice, funny moment or other story from your life.

The grand prize winner will receive $25,000 and be published in Reader's Digest. The top ten runners up (and the readers' choice winner with the most votes) will receive $2,500 and may be published in Reader's Digest.

Do you think we can do this thing? I think we can! I have faith in you and am grateful for every little vote. Ready? Set? Click!

Thanks everyone!!!!